Four
o’clock will be here way too soon. I crawl into bed and drift off,
succumbing easily. My mom walks into my room. She sits on
my bed and pets my hair. She is whispering something but I can’t
understand her. I turn the small lamp on so I can see her. She has
a busted lip and her left eye is swollen shut. I know what happened to
her but I ask anyway, “Who did this to you?” She continues petting my hair
but is much rougher, pulling strands from my scalp. “You did this to me,
Ian. You did this.”

I sit upright, panting. Beads of sweat make their way down my neck.
There’s a soft tapping at my bedroom door. I turn my head wildly,
searching my room for any sign my mother was here. Nothing. There
wouldn’t be. She wasn’t here. It was just a dream. A bad
dream.

About the Author:

I enjoy
spending time with my family and friends. Always one to daydream, I’m
often teased for the many bits and pieces of paper with notes and ideas for
different books littering my desk. After spending most of my life in rural
Nevada, I’ve recently moved to Washington.

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